


Ten Ways to Woo Your Angel Boyfriend

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Bathroom Sex, Castiel in the Bunker, Dean is In Over His Head, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluffy Ending, Humor, M/M, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mutual Masturbation, Openly Bisexual Dean, Sexual Humor, Teacher Dean, but what else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:22:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What? You mean—?”</p><p>“Cas, there’s no good in sitting here thinking about it,” he says, throwing his arm up. “Just try it, man. If it’s not your thing, at least you’ll know—but I highly doubt it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Ways to Woo Your Angel Boyfriend

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I don't know what I'm doing. I wrote this in a little over an hour. I just love the idea of Dean teaching Cas the ways of humanity, alright? Sheesh.

“Dean, can I ask you a question?”

Dean peers over the top of the latest _Cosmo_ issue (What? A man can’t have Lauren Conrad and figure out Ten Ways to eat her too?), facing a pensive Castiel. Pensive in his forehead, creased like a newspaper after it’s been in the paperboy’s hands, and his eyes. They’re darker than usual—like a pinch of lemon swirled in a cup of chai tea one too many times. “Hit me.”

Cas shifts in his seat. The Men of Letters were great for some things, butt support not being one of them. “I’ve been thinking, um… how exactly does masturbation work?”

If Dean had chai tea, he would’ve sprayed it everywhere. This is _definitely_ his area of expertise, but coming from an angel—or _ex_ -angel, Dean wasn’t quite sure these days—of the Lord, this was breaching all kinds of Biblical laws. “Uh, you know, you just sorta—” Dean sets his magazine down to gesture wildly with said hand. Cas’s expression doesn’t change. “—how long have you been thinking about this, man?”

Cas shrugs lamely. “A little over a year, perhaps… do you, um…”

“Do I _masturbate?”_

“Yes.”

“Sometimes,” Dean replies, though it comes out as a half-truth, half-question. Do guys talk about this with other guys? Dean wouldn’t know seeing as he hasn’t had many guy friends in his long and equally painful life. (This moment being the most painful.) “Have you?”

Cas shakes his head. “No, not exactly. I mean, April sort of demonstrated it during copulation, but I wasn’t really focused on _me_ during our time, if you know what I mean.” Dean snorts, earning a half-hearted smile from his friend before he turns gravely serious again. “Plus, that was more of a two-person effort. I understand the act of mono-stimulation relies entirely on one person.”

“Okay, first off,” Dean says, torn between laughing and crying, “if you’re thinking about, you know, whacking the mole, don’t call it _mono-stimulation,_ alright?” He pauses. “You _are_ thinking about it, right?”

Cas’s eyebrows meet at the bridge of his nose. “Well, not right now, but yes.”

“Yeah, okay, secondly, don’t Google these things because a) the internet is full of angsty puberty-pushing teenagers who don’t know shit and b) Sam will kill me and I don’t know how to delete browsing history.”

“Okay,” Cas agrees, even though he looks even more confused than before they started this conversation, “so how am I going to learn how to perform mon—the mole-whacking tradition?”

Dean pinches his nose, sighing. What did he ever do to deserve this punishment? Hell was torture enough. “You like to read, right?”

“Of course. Reading engages both the brain and the eyes, creating—”

“Slow your role, _Sam_ ,” Dean scoffs before pushing Cosmo Cas’s way. Cas’s face contorts in a childlike way, like someone just handed him a bowl of broccoli and expects him to eat it in one sitting.

“I don’t understand.”

“Reading comes in all shapes and sizes; personally I prefer the _thinner_ ones, but…” Dean shakes off the banana peel sticking to his head. “Anyway, some reading doesn’t exactly require much reading…”

Cas takes the magazine in his hands with careful precision. “Dean, these are mostly pictures.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, licking his lips. “What I’m saying is sometimes stimulation comes from _not_ reading so much, you know? If you spend a lot of time trying to figure out how to do something, the end-product isn’t always good. Sometimes you just have to let primal instinct take over.”

“You mean—?”

“Trial and error, man. You get the hang of it after a handful of times—no pun intended.” He winks then reaches over the table and clasps Cas’s shoulder with one of his famous grins. “Good luck.”

Cas throws his head back. “What? You mean—?”

“Cas, there’s no good in sitting here thinking about it,” he says, throwing his arm up. “Just try it, man. If it’s not your thing, at least you’ll know—but I _highly_ doubt it.”

Cas looks like the same child ten years down the road when he’s a convicted felon: about to bolt any second. Honestly, the first time Dean beat his own bush, he felt the same way. Not because he thought he was doing something wrong, but because his dad opened the bathroom door as he was on the verge of climaxing. (Luckily it wasn’t the second time or he’d have to explain what a ten-year-old copy of _Playgirl_ was doing under his bed.)

Nonetheless, like the soldier he was, Cas stood up from the table, calmly took the magazine in his hands, and proceeded to the bathroom—but not before turning around and asking Dean: “Will you come with me?” Cas measures the horror crossing Dean’s face and amends his question: “I mean, not _with_ me, but, you know, at least be nearby if I need you.”

And honestly, that should’ve set off every red flag in his head, but Dean says, “Uh, yeah, sure. I just realized I haven’t even advised you to use lube.”

“What’s lube?”

Dean drapes his arm over Cas’s shoulders and guides him up the stairs, not noticing the pep in his step that wasn’t there before. “Oh buddy, we have a lot of ground to cover.”

***

Dean stands outside one of the Bunker’s many spare bathrooms, kicking his feet absent-mindedly. Honestly, for how good Cas has been doing so far, he should’ve brought reading material. He could always make a quick stop to his room (if he could _find_ his room), but Cas gave him specific instructions to be close by if anything happened.

Not that Dean was obligated to do anything (since when did he start listening anyone anyway?) but there was the very real possibility that something could happen to Cas in a ten-by-ten structure. I mean, have you seen the dorky little guy?

“ _Dean.”_

Either Cas was moaning his name (which again, would breach all _kinds_ of Biblical laws), or there’s a bad moon on the rise. “Cas?” No answer. Dean knocks sternly on the door. “Cas? What’s goin’ on, buddy?”

“Dean.” Relief floods his voice—like he thought Dean would actually abandon him for Moby Dick.

“Cas, what’s up? Talk to me.”

“My zipper’s stuck.”

Dean shakes his head, holding back a laugh. “Well,” he starts, “do you need help?”

“That would be preferred.” He hasn’t heard Cas sound so small for a guy who can fight the Chrysler building. Dean scoffs as he reaches for the doorknob, then stills.

“You’re decent, right?”

Dean can practically see the pouty arm cross. “No, Dean, I pulled out my genitals because I couldn’t bother with properly removing my pants.”

“Alright, no need to get snappy,” he replies, turning the handle. What he doesn’t expect is to be faced with a half-naked angel whose tanned torso (how many calories does smiting people burn anyway??) is glistening with something too thick to be sweat. His hair is a dead giveaway, messier than any look you can get from a gel or mousse. “Cas… did you _lube yourself_?”

Cas tilts his head. “Yes, that’s what you told me to do.”

“No, no,” Dean chuckles, gripping his left bicep before realizing a) _lube_ and b) this must’ve been what it was like when Cas gripped Dean from the depths of Hell. He blushes at both points. “When I said _length,_ I meant this thing.”

Holy shit.

He just accentuated _this thing_ by cupping his penis.

And he isn’t letting go, why isn’t he letting go?

Cas’s eyes lock on Dean’s hand. “Dean, my pants are—”

“Yeah, no, Cas, I feel it,” he replies shakily. What the hell is happening?

“But I didn’t ‘read’ anything yet, I haven’t even—”

Cas does air-quotes and all and it’s just enough to send Dean over the edge. He kisses him hard enough to send Cas’s definition of length scrambling into the shelf behind them. Cas responds eagerly with lips and arms wrapping around him like a boa constrictor, swallowing every thought prior to this moment whole, and all Dean can wrap around is scruff, lube, and a very blue dick.

Dean ruts against him once, sending not sparks, but damn _pins_ of arousal shooting to his own hardness. Cas bucks against him, holding onto Dean’s neck like a rodeo cowboy as Dean ravishes his neck, tasting Vaseline and sweat and Dollar Store cologne and everything that makes Cas.

“Dean, I-I want… I need…”

Cas doesn’t even have to talk coherently for Dean to get the message. He reaches for the container of lube on the latrine and quirts a generous amount on his fingers until his hands are gloved in the stuff. Cas eyes him ravenously, like a blue-eyed falcon stalking its kill as Dean pulls off his pants and boxers in one swift move. Then, with bated breath, Dean runs his hands up and down Cas’s shaft.

It’s actually quite the intimate gesture, gliding over every nook and cranny Castiel’s vessel has to offer (even though there’s next to none—Cas knew how to pick ‘em). He takes one of Cas’s hands anchored around his nape to intertwine their fingers and cup _Dean’s_ definition of length in their newly joined hands.

Cas is stiff for a moment so Dean goes slow, scaling his hardness from bottom to top as his other hand does the same, only this time their joined, grease-sodden hands journey to his balls. Only when he starts squeezing does Cas go slack against him. Dean picks up the pace on his arousal and Cas rides the bull with him for more than a few seconds until he comes. His orgasm is a vibrating warmth that tickles Dean’s neck.

Dean brings Cas’s hands to his back, still very much clothed. “Thank you, Dean,” he breathes like a goodnight prayer into his collarbone. Dean holds him back tighter before releasing to press a kiss to his temple.

“Any time,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. The blush he sported earlier grew twenty sizes too big for his liking (among other things), but he couldn’t bother with details at the moment.

“If you ever want me to, um… you know,” Cas crowds into his personal space again, eyes twinkling with hope, “return the favor, I think I’m well-versed in the art of mono-stimulation.”

Dean can’t be bothered with semantics—and Cas looks so happy when he says it—so he chuckles, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Cas confirms, leaning up to plant a feather-light kiss on his spit-slick lips, “I have a great teacher.”

Biblical laws be damned, because he takes Cas up on his offer.

 

 


End file.
